


Pyrrhic

by completetheory



Category: Transformers: Prime
Genre: F/F, Fluff, Post-Canon, Queer Friendly, Trans Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-04
Updated: 2020-09-04
Packaged: 2021-03-06 14:27:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 896
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26290360
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/completetheory/pseuds/completetheory
Summary: After the Great War, the only winning team appears to be the Council; the only winning move is not to play.Compliant with my other fic, "Service with a Smile".
Relationships: Starscream/Wheeljack (Transformers)
Kudos: 12





	Pyrrhic

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MadScientific](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MadScientific/gifts).



Postwar Cybertron left Wheeljack with a lot of time to think. 

There was job security, sure. The scrapyard did a brisk business, thanks to the overall lack of planet-wide factories, and the demand for this or that rare component. Every antebellum ship could be stripped down and sold on to those who were in desperate need... but Wheeljack could do that job practically powered down, after three centuries of scavenging for the _Jackhammer_. 

The thinking time came from precious few customers to alleviate the boredom between tear downs; the outskirts of New Iacon offered only the sounds of distant traffic and city lights.

For that reason, the shadow across her work was welcome. A brief distraction from ruminations, recrimination, and ever-unquiet war dead. 

“What can I do for you, chief--” Wheeljack looked up. 

The familiar face made the nickname falter. After the war, most Autobots had reintegrated into civilian society, while the Decepticons scattered to the winds.

But here was the former Commander Starscream, remarkably intact and none the worse for wear, with pride in her spine that it seemed the whole cosmos couldn’t suppress. Wheeljack had to admire that.

“Wheeljack.” The once Lord of the Decepticons remembered her, and concealed any nervousness like a pro. “I am here to requisition a number of items from you.” 

Two fingered, she slid a datapad across the counter, and Wheeljack took it, struck silent for the first time in a while. There was nothing nasty, nothing in the weapons of mass destruction department - not really her style, anyway, as far as Wheeljack understood - but several items on the Council’s banned list. Mostly these were engine parts designed for escape velocity tolerances.

The Council ...’frowned on’ individual Cybertronian liberties of venturing off-world, not while the nascent planet still required so much upkeep. And with so many Autobots returning to the castes they’d held before the civil war, it wouldn’t be long before _the second verse, same as the first._

Wheeljack highlighted the parts likely to cause red flags, passing the datapad to its owner.

“Can’t do you the boosters. Or the form-coil.” She watched Starscream’s mouth twist in disapproval, “But if you combine the old Freight Class energon filters with a pretty run of the mill hub-and-coil from, say, a Lite Cruiser? You get essentially the same thing.” 

Starscream’s irritation melted like morning frost, blossoming into a surprised delight. “Is that so?” She leaned over the counter, the motion emphasizing the sweeping beauty of her wings, “And how much is a Cybertronian’s expertise in this construction worth?” 

Huh. “Only the cost of the parts. And a little discretion. Don’t want the red-and-blues kicking in my gate, throwing around rude accusations.” Wheeljack got up, “Let me check the back for you.” 

Starscream idled, bemused, a little guarded, but relaxed when the Wrecker returned with a box of the requested parts. She paid special attention when Wheeljack demonstrated the method behind her recommendation, and then agreeably packed away the product and arranged the credit payment. 

“So you’re heading off-world.” Wheeljack observed, while the credit machine ticked over and really thought about the transaction. 

“Perhaps.” Starscream could not fully exorcise bitterness, “There is little on Cybertron worth fighting for, now.” 

“Yeah? Sorry to see you go.” 

Starscream skipped a beat, long enough to display how that had thrown her, and then accepted the small indented metal proof of purchase between two fingers. “I can’t imagine why.” 

“Cybertron’s just a bunch of Wellgens who don’t know the first thing about the last three hundred years. Never even seen a colony planet. Not their fault, but it does make for some awkward silences when they admire _that_.”

Wheeljack indicated, and Starscream followed her gesture. The statue of Optimus Prime loomed large from New Iacon, crowning the square of the state’s capital. It was as tall as the tallest of the revivified city-state’s buildings, such that planet-side navigators could triangulate their positions, should their instruments fail. Optimus, or rather, his effigy, was the fulcrum on which the planet turned. 

Metaphorically, at least.

Starscream looked back at Wheeljack, recovering. “You are full of surprises. I had believed your service record spoke for your allegiances.” 

Delicate doublespeak was not Wheeljack’s forte, but these days almost a necessity - something else she hated about Cybertron. The fine print underneath all the sacrifice was that their world was rebuilt more intensely upon the foundations that had caused the first schism, and anyone who even hinted at treason had the ghost of their civil liberties violated instantly - citing terrorism, anarchy, whatever spooky words the Council felt like fit the flavor-of-the-month. 

“Don’t believe everything you read.” Wheeljack decided, “Half of what I did was so classified it never made it into the files.” _And half of **that** was enough to make me wonder if there was any difference between what the Wreckers did and what Megatron was doing._ Different motives, sure, but did that matter to your enemies?

“I see.” Starscream tapped a finger against her chin, and Wheeljack was surprised by how pleasant she found that wicked smile, “If it is conversation of a - learned sort - that you seek, then, I doubt I will be leaving Cybertron for a few weeks, at least. I shall call upon you again.”

“Great.” Wheeljack grinned. “I’m here practically every day.” 

Starscream left, the cant of her wings hinting at happy fluster. That was unexpected.


End file.
